


The Bastille

by cegodfre, Lilith Sedai (orphan_account)



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-15
Updated: 2020-12-15
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:47:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28097151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cegodfre/pseuds/cegodfre, https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Lilith%20Sedai
Summary: Christine and Meg make an attempt to free a prisoner. PG. Angst, romance, first-time.
Relationships: Christine Daaé/Erik | Phantom of the Opera
Kudos: 7





	The Bastille

**Author's Note:**

> The Bastille  
> by Cara Liane (Lilith Sedai circa 1990) (lilith_sedai@hotmail.com)

...I have heard the key  
Turn in the door once and turn once only  
We think of the key, each in his prison.  
\--T. S. Eliot, The Waste Land

A dark-cloaked figure slipped gracefully through the winter rain of Paris, seeking the shadows and alleys where men did not dare go. Few eyes marked its passing. Those which did could not penetrate the shadow of the low-pulled cowl.

At last the figure reached the glowing splendor of the Place de l'Opera. Ghostlike, it slipped through the departing crowds, lingered by the doors hesitantly, and entered. A sense of purpose evident in its stride, the shadowy individual entered the hallway which led to dressing chambers occupied by the chorus and the corps de ballet.

Meg Giry put aside her ballet costume and shouldered into her street clothes. She raised the glass in the lamp, preparing to blow out the light and leave her dressing room for the evening. A quiet tapping sounded at her door. "A moment," she called, lifting a graceful gilt candle and holder, in which a second flame burned. She lifted the latch and swung the heavy mahogany door wide. Meg cried out at the sight which confronted her and shrank back, frightened despite herself.

The figure quickly shouldered into her room. Meg whimpered, the nightmarish memories of the reign of the Phantom flooding into her mind. "The Opera Ghost!" she moaned, clutching the candle before her as a quavering shield.

The figure lifted its gloved hands to the cowl. The hands paused as Meg shivered, and suddenly they threw back the cowl, revealing creamy skin, a torrent of glowing brown curls, and the lovely blue eyes Meg remembered so well.

"Christine!" Meg Giry went limp with relief and fumbled her candle onto the dresser.

"Meg, you are such a goose," Christine smiled warmly, shedding the soaked cloak. "And I'm spoiling your rug." She hung her wrap on a hook in the corner, shaking out her hair and her dress.

"Oh, Christine-- Madame le Comtesse-- oh, whatever shall I call you now!" Meg embraced Christine warmly.

"Just Christine," Christine spoke softly, returning the hug. "just Christine."

"What has brought you back to Paris?" Meg questioned, drawing back and gazing at Christine curiously.

Christine drew a deep sigh. "Your letters, Meg," she admitted, and fidgeted slightly. "You're very kind to write to me so often. Particularly about Erik-- the Opera Ghost," she clarified, seeing Meg's puzzled expression. "You told me the police captured him."

"Oh," Meg nodded, understanding. "You came for the trial." Her face grew sober. "I'm afraid you're too late, Christine."

Christine's face went white, and she swayed. "They haven't--- they haven't killed him, have they?"

"Not yet," Meg steadied Christine, helped her to a chair. "But they convicted him of stealing thousands of francs and of murdering Signor Piangi, Joseph Buquet, the Vicomte de Chagny, and yourself." She shook her head with frustration. "No one would believe me when I said you were alive. They would not even let me approach the Court! It was a farce. The only people who attended were Messrs. Andre and Firmin, and the Comte de Chagny."

"When is it to be?" Christine whispered. "The execution."

"Next week, in the old Place de Greive," Meg murmured sadly, knowing she must tell Christine the truth.

"No," Christine raised her eyes to Meg, and tears spilled over her dark lashes. "They can't kill him!" She sank her face into her hands and wept silently, her shoulders shaking.

Meg's compassionate gaze took in Christine's pallor, her thinness, and the dark shadows beneath her eyes. The wagon trip from the provinces had left her completely exhausted. The best thing she could do for Christine now was to help her sleep. She was not well enough to make the trip to Meg's flat. Even if she were, there would be no room for her amongst the rest of Meg's family.

Meg led her to the soft couch. "You must rest. The journey has been a terrible strain on you. Early tomorrow we'll get you a good hot bath and some clean clothes."

Weakly, Christine accepted Meg's help and fell into a deep sleep almost as soon as her head touched the soft cushions.

Meg was glad she had taken the time to prepare this room to serve as a bedroom at need. She selected linens and a woollen blanket, settling them gently around her sleeping friend. She then settled herself into her most comfortable chair and wrapped herself warmly. How horrible that terrible things always seemed to happen to those who deserved them least! Christine's life was filled with more than her fair share of sorrow. Her candle flickered and she blew it out.

She did not fall asleep for a long time.

Christine dreamed. Fleeting images of her journey in jolting wagons, the horror she had felt when she opened the letter telling of Erik's capture... she stirred in her sleep, moaning softly. The dream shifted, and she felt herself spinning weightless into blackness. She could not awaken. Unable to speak, she silently begged for help, praying for an end to the unbearable descent.

At first her only answer was the mocking sound of wind in her ears... but then came the voice. In the swirling darkness, his voice. Rising from nothingness into the rich, glowing tenor which had haunted the nights in her marriage bed. Erik's voice, the timbre of love transformed to sound. "Erik!" Christine implored the darkness. "Erik, help me!" The glorious notes rose to a triumphant crescendo. Her heart filled to bursting, Christine searched for him through the gloom. There.... his arms lifted to catch her, the white of his mask shining as if spotlighted, his tender, commanding eyes burning into her very soul...

She fell into his arms and he clasped her, pressed her to him, spun her around effortlessly. Dizzily she clung to him, absorbing the throbbing notes even before they burst from his chest, lifting her own voice to blend with his. Her heart raced wildly, her senses begging to hold him, to love him, to be with him and only him, forever and ever.

Then she felt Erik ripped from her arms, his glorious voice was silenced, and he receded from her. Projected against the swirling dark of her dream, images formed of him chained and beaten. The inverted L of the gallows... the hangman's knot...

Christine tried to wake, but could not. Mocking laughter grew louder and louder, the shrieking laughter separating into the voices of Carlotta, Andre, Firmin... Joseph Buquet, and Ubaldo Piangi... She tossed and fought, and at last the dream shifted.

In the morning, Christine awakened softly beneath the unfamiliar sheets of soft linen and lifted herself on her elbow, uncertain of where she had spent the night. The sight of Meg, her chin sunk on her breast in slumber, brought Christine back into her reckoning. She rose as quietly as possible and made a futile attempt to brush the wrinkles from her dress. She shrugged and lifted her cloak from the rack. Bringing it around her shoulders, she pushed the door open and let herself into the hall.

She took her key and entered her old dressing room. The room might never have been her home. It held nothing familiar... except for the mirror. The euphoria of her dream came back to her as she crept across the floor and pressed her fingers to the panelling as Erik had shown her how to do. The mirror turned with its customary swiftness, leaving her breathless in blackness. Pressing her left hand to her breast in a vain attempt to calm her fear of the dark, she reached out blindly with her right hand. Her fingers clasped the lantern Erik had left there for her.

Christine fumbled to light the lantern. Succeeding, she lifted it. The orange glow of the flame formed a faint halo around her, lighting the path as she crept through the catacombs toward Erik's palace on the lake.

The lake was deathly still, Erik's boat lying abandoned on the shore. She got into the boat and cast off.

His home was cold and dark. Leaving the front door open, she touched a candle to the flame of her lantern and moved into the house, lighting candles as she went. Everything was deathly still, and the carpets had a musty smell. Erik's beautiful furniture, the pipe organ, all was covered with dust. Clearly no one had bothered to come in here since his capture.

She paused by his intricately carven chair. The delicate white mask, his eternal prison, lay on the seat. She lifted it and sank limply into the chair. Her hands tightly clasping the mask in her lap, she wept until she could cry no longer.

"Christine?" Meg's faint voice penetrated her sadness. Meg had come all the way down here, to find her. How had she known where to find Erik's dwelling on the lake? Christine tucked the mask away into her dress pocket, blew out the candles, and left the house, carefully poling the boat back across the glassy water. Meg stood forlorn on the shore, her single candle casting a flickering reflection on the dark misty water.

"Let's go back," Meg urged Christine as the boat ran aground. "There are rats down here... and worse."

"Yes," Christine agreed reluctantly, trying to keep her voice steady. "I suppose you're right. I don't see how you ever found your way down." She took the lead, guiding Meg back through the labyrinth.

"I came down here the evening you left with Raoul," Meg answered. "Everyone came, to find the Phantom and rescue you."

Christine nodded, remembering how she and Raoul had fled to avoid the mob which pursued Erik to his lair. She had not thought at the time that Erik might allow himself to be caught.

"What happened to him after we left?" Christine demanded of Meg.

"No one could have forgiven his crimes," Meg replied somberly. "Large sums of money had gone missing. Too many people had been murdered. We did not find him that night, but the next day gendarmes came. They searched the entire building and all the cellars. Monsieur Firmin said they found him sitting in that house of his, playing his pipe organ. He did not stop when they entered his home. He did not stop until they seized him." Meg swallowed a lump in her throat, grieved by Christine's anguished expression. "They bound him and dragged him away."

"Where did they take him?" Christine demanded, her eyes blazing furiously.

"The Bastille." Meg reached out to steady Christine as she slipped on a broken step.

"We have to rescue him," Christine's voice was determined.

Meg groaned and wiped a cobweb from her face. "Christine," she murmured, "Don't be silly--"

"Meg, I have to do it. Erik spared my life, and Raoul's. He gave me my freedom." She swung her lantern, agitated. "The world never gave him a chance, never let him become what he might have been-- he was changed that night, Meg. I saw a side of him I never expected, I saw the man he might have been. I know he has killed," Christine could not wholly repress a shudder, "but in spite of that, there is a nobility in him, a genius..."

Memories of Erik as her maestro, the Angel of Music, flooded her mind, and she groped helplessly for words to express her thoughts and feelings. She had to persuade Meg to help her. "All he needs is for someone to give him a chance," she finished lamely, hoping she spoke the truth.

Meg stepped through the mirror behind her friend, keeping her eyes on the floor. She creased a fold of her shawl between her fingers, keeping her silence till they made their way back to her dressing room. "Christine..." Meg closed the door behind them, hesitating so long Christine thought she might not finish her sentence. "Do you plan to sacrifice yourself to give him that chance?"

Christine stiffened, eyes flashing with anger. She whirled to rush from the room, but paused with her hand on the knob. After a long moment, she blew out her anger in a deep sigh. "Meg," she whispered, letting her forehead sag against the mahogany door, "I don't think it will be a sacrifice." I hope not, she prayed silently to herself. Oh, I hope not.

Meg regarded her with wide eyes, not daring to make any assumptions about what Christine was telling her.

Christine turned slightly, for she could not meet Meg's eyes. "I never forget him," she admitted in a small voice. "I can't. I don't want to, really. Raoul knows, of course." She could not continue. Erik's shadow had intruded between herself and Raoul constantly, before and after their marriage. They had been mistaken to believe that Christine could escape from him so easily. Erik's music had become a part of Christine. It had mingled with her soul. And his love for her... after his consuming passion, anything else was a disappointment. Raoul's devotion had become passe. There was none of the sweetness of seduction, none of the mystery and excitement which had characterized her relationship with Erik.

"I have to try to save him," she took a deep breath, gathering courage to make her confession. "Meg, I love him."

"Oh, Christine," Meg rose and touched her friend's shoulder, comforting. "I'll help you," she promised. "We'll get him out." She knew they did not have long to discover Erik's location in the Bastille or to make their plans, but they would try.

Thunder rumbled heavily through the evening sky, shaking the buildings and trees. No evidence of sunlight remained in the west, the last vestiges of daylight obscured by the heavy clouds and curtains of rain. Christine and Meg Giry darted through the rain and lightning, searching for one of the more common sights of Paris: a drunken coachman.

Finding one, Christine gave Meg a nod. Meg approached the man, calling to him.

Christine turned and hurried down the street, clutching her cloak closed tightly. Se made for the Bastille, groping for the heavy iron in her pocket All was in order, and now it was only a matter of luck and timing.

Crudely the short, fat gate guard elbowed his companion, grinning, calling his attention to a girl crossing the street toward them. Painted and dressed in the skimpy finery of a prostitute, the girl was one of the prettiest he had seen in a long while. Her small, delicate features were tempting, and he thanked good fortune to be on gate duty this evening.

He stepped forward, putting out a grimy hand. "Come here, cherie, let's have a look at you!"

She stepped up, lifting her eyes to him. He was repulsive and dirty, with a week's growth of nasty beard. She would have preferred his companion, a tall hatchet-faced man who looked cleaner, but he did not express any interest in her.

She parted her lips slightly, a seductive gesture, meeting the lustful guard's eyes. He grabbed her waist roughly. "I think you've found what you're looking for!" He spun her to his side, laughing loudly.

Christine tried to hide her disgust at his breath, which reeked of cheap wine. "Will you take me to your room, Monsieur?" She forced her voice to remain light and enticing.

"So you want to be my little jailbird, do you?" He kissed her, his rough mouth wet and horrible. Christine shuddered at the scratch of his filthy whiskers, her fist clenching on the handle of the concealed iron. "How much?" he demanded, pulling back at last.

Christine forced herself to ignore the rude intimacy of his hands. "Twenty francs, Monsieur," she offered, having no idea what price might be acceptable. Certainly no amount would be enough to persuade her to carry through a rendezvous such as this.

"Twenty?" he spat, shoving her back. "What the hell do you think you are?" Likewise, his tall comrade turned his back, slapping his palm against the rough brick of the guardhouse with a flat, final sound of rejection.

"But for you, Monsieur," Christine purred, "Ten francs." She could not allow pride to interfere with her plan. She must get inside the prison walls while there was still a chance.

"That's more like it, cherie." He elbowed his friend roughly "Watch the gate, will you?"

The tall man made a sour face, but let the two of them pass, handing her short patron the key to the inner gate.

They passed a series of gates and entries. Christine noted with interest that a single key controlled most of them. She let her eyes pass over the cells. These were evident only as wooden doors every few steps along the passage, each with a tiny barred window slot in the center. The floors were bare stone, and had obviously never been cleaned. She suppressed nausea, slipping a suggestive arm around her patron's waist.

"You must be very brave, to work with criminals," she murmured in his ear. "Tell me, do they often escape?"

He laughed shortly. "Not likely. They're chained in the cells. Even if one broke his chains, he couldn't open the door without getting the key."

Christine perked her ears with interest. "It must be fulfilling," she breathed into his ear, "to have such power over men."

"And women, too," he grated, grabbing her hair, twisting her head around, and claiming her mouth again harshly. Christine resisted the desire to bite him.

"Of course," she gasped, trying not to retch. "Show me one of them," she suggested, pressing against him. "I've never seen a jailor with his prisoner," she let her voice fall huskily. "It must be... very exciting."

He laughed derisively, shoving her aside. He moved to a door and selected a rusting key. The lock turned reluctantly and the door opened, filling the corridor with a sour stench. Christine recoiled despite herself.

"Not too pretty, is it, cherie?" He grabbed her arm and made her look into the dark cell, where a wraithlike man hung from wrist irons. At the sight of them, the prisoner began to plead for release, twisting horribly against the dank brick wall. Christine covered her mouth with horror. Imagine Erik kept like this, chained like an animal!

She turned, hiding her face against the guard, realizing dimly that she didn't even know his name. Obviously that did not matter to him.

"Come on," he snapped, tiring of the game, slamming the door and shutting the lock. "We're wasting our time."

Christine followed him to a dank, filthy room which was obviously used as sleeping quarters for several men. Fortunately, none of them were present.

Christine eyed the blankets and rank mattresses with loathing. They were stiff with filth and probably bugs, as well.

Her fist wrapped again around the flatiron. She heard herself cooing softly to the gatekeeper, asking him to light a second lamp.

Giving her a leer, he turned to the lamp. She struck him with all her might, the iron making a dull thud against his head. He fell like a sack of potatoes, upsetting the table and the light. A smell of spilled oil rose in the air. She felt no remorse at what she had done.

Steeling herself, she stripped off his ragged clothes and threw her own aside, trading them for his. She snagged a cloak from a hook on the wall, tucking the bulky key-ring into the guard's oversized leather belt, which she wrapped twice around her slender waist. Swiftly she tied back her hair, pulling up the cowl of the cloak. She even took his boots, lacing the clumsy things onto her tiny feet over her shoes.

She nudged the man with her foot, wondering not quite idly if she had killed him. He did not groan, but a moment's inspection revealed that his breathing had not ceased.

She snatched up her clothing and shoved it inside the filthy grey shirt she now wore, which made her look fat and helped hide her feminine shape.

No time to waste. She left the room, using the guard's skeleton key to re-lock it. Hopefully it would be some time before he came to or was discovered.

Christine knew little of the Bastille, save that rumors spoke of murderers and lunatics being kept on the highest level, to make escape all the more difficult. Caution had forbidden her to ask her lecherous guard, however stupid the man might have been, for specific information regarding Erik. If she had roused his suspicions, he would never have turned his back to her.

Christine climbed the steep staircases, holding the gate guard's dim lantern in one hand, the fingers of her other hand nervously sorting through his keys. This was the one the man had used to open the cell door...

She reached the highest level, gazing with dismay at the many doors she faced. She must hurry. She began with the first door on her right, lifting the lantern high to peer through the bars.

Several minutes and two corridors later, she was rewarded. The lantern cast its glow upon a prisoner whose face which might bear scars other than those of hunger and torture. She could not see as distinctly as she would have liked, for the window was too high. She hesitated, biting her lip. It must be Erik.

She fumbled with the keys, dismayed that the one she had chosen did not fit the lock. Another, then, and another...

The fifth key turned the lock, filling her with relief. She swung the door open, stepping inside and lifting her lantern.

Christine pressed the heavy oaken door closed with her body. She stifled a shocked cry with the back of her hand. Now she could see that it was definitely Erik who hung chained to wrist manacles on the wall of the cell.

His fine evening jacket had gone, and he wore a tattered white linen shirt and dusty trousers barely recognizable as black. His burning eyes were closed, and he was terribly pale. Terror filled her... was she even now too late to save him? She darted across the floor to him. When had he last been fed?

Her heart sank into her shoes as she realized she was far too short to reach the cruel bonds which held his wrists. Whirling, she cast her eyes about, searching for something-- anything-- to stand on. Mercifully, there was a low stool. She snatched it.

With trembling hands, she pushed a heavy key into the rusting manacles and forced it to turn. As gently as she could, she lowered Erik to the stone floor. She knelt at his side, gently stroking his lacerated wrists. Her warm tears splashed on his ruined face and his eyelids fluttered. He was alive!

A multitude of frantic emotions welled within her heart. She lifted him into her arms, pressing a desperate kiss to his mouth, warming his breath with her own.

His hand clasped her wrist with all his fierce strength. His eyes opened. His eyes-- piercing deep blue, crystal clear, seared through her, their sudden flame of passionate emotion making her tremble violently. Christine forgot the damp, moldering cell, the danger to them both, and fell helplessly into his gaze. His arms came around her, and he pulled her close for an eternal, blissful moment.

Christine finally drew away, embarrassed by her strong conflicting feelings and the sudden desire to weep. Neither of them spoke. Erik wearily raised himself to his feet. Angry tears welled unbidden in Christine's eyes at the sight of ugly bruises and weals showing on his strong back through the gaping tears in his linen shirt. His captors had beaten him viciously. He steadied himself against the wall, squaring his shoulders. The hope granted by her presence had revitalized him enough that he could stand and walk.

Christine emerged from her angry, disbelieving daze and realized he was waiting with patient curiosity. Of course, she understood. Their escape. She bit her lip and climbed back onto the stool, lifting the manacles and chains from the heavy iron hook. She approached him, dragging the heavy chain. He stared into her eyes for a long moment and then turned his back to her, crossing his arms behind him. Reluctantly she replaced the manacles, as loosely as possible. Her hands fluttered to the hood of her stolen jailor's cloak, making sure none of her hair had escaped to reveal her gender.

Attempting once more to imitate a masculine swagger, Christine took hold of his chains and led him through the door. Erik played his role as well, hanging his head and shuffling painfully, giving the appearance of pulling sullenly against the chains.

Through the endless halls and past countless doors they walked. Luckily, they met few guards. Those they met were busy with their own business, gambling and drinking. Christine resisted the urge to guiltily hurry her pace. They still had to make it past the tall guard at the gate.

On the ground level, Christine was grateful to hear Meg's voice imperiously demanding the guard to fetch his superior, at once. Praying that she appeared confident, Christine jerked at Erik's chains, roughly dragging him to the gate.

"At last!" Despite her youth, Meg's authority was convincing. "I told this fool that the Comte had arranged to take him. He is to be given to the Comte de Chagny at once!"

"But--" the single gatekeeper protested irritably. Meg let him go no further.

"Stand aside, fool. The creature murdered the Comte's younger brother. It is only just that Phillipe carry out a more fitting sentence for his crime!" Meg's eyes grew sly, and she dipped into her purse with a deliberate flourish. Her hand came out filled with gold. "I have brought a gift from the Comte to thank you for your cooperation."

Christine mustered strength and shoved the gatekeeper as rudely as possible, pressing Erik forward.

Grumbling, the man unlocked the gate and hastily pocketed Meg's money. Christine rushed Erik through, into the waiting carriage.

"You will of course come with us, to ensure that he does not escape from custody!" Meg chivvied Christine, who nodded obediently and climbed into the carriage.

Meg climbed in herself and the driver whipped up the coach. Inside, Christine busily unlocked Erik's wrist and ankle manacles. Meg tried not to be nervous, but all the same she wished Christine had left them fastened. As she watched, her eyes met accidentally with those of the man who had murdered Ubaldo Piangi and Joseph Buquet. Meg swallowed and looked away hurriedly. She had seen his face before, yes, but never had those eyes touched hers, those dominating eyes of incredible intensity...

Meg swallowed again, aware that her throat had gone dry. Christine was helping him into a cloak, pressing his mask into his hands, putting his hat on his head. Finishing with him, she shouldered into a cloak Meg had brought for her, covering the nasty rags she had stolen from the ill-fated gatekeeper.

"I owe you my gratitude, Mademoiselle Giry," Erik addressed Meg civilly, and her eyes flew to him uncertainly. She hardly knew how to reply.

"You've a lovely voice," Meg murmured timidly.

"Your mother was as kind to me as anyone I have known," he continued. "I am grateful to both of you."

"Thank you, Monsieur," Meg bowed her head politely and looked to Christine for help in the conversation.

Christine did not speak. Her flurry of activity finished, she sat not quite touching Erik, her hands folded in her lap and her eyes fastened to them. Clearly she was almost as uncomfortable as Meg.

Erik, once more wearing one of his own fine cloaks and his low-brimmed hat, had straightened himself proudly and stared out the small window of the coach with the air of a king returning from exile.

"Will you return to your home on the lake?" Christine questioned timidly, breaking the long silence.

"For the present."

Meg watched his face grow tight. A dark look flared in his eyes, his jaw firmed, and he did not say more. Though she did not watch his face, Christine seemed quite aware of the change in his temperament. She nodded quietly and resumed her silence.

Meg shrank into herself, fearing his anger if Christine were to return to Raoul. Plainly Erik felt hurt and angry, and was too damnably proud to ask her to stay.

Meg resisted the urge to squirm in the tense atmosphere of the carriage. She was quite glad when their driver paused and allowed them to disembark near the Opera House.

"Monsieur le Phantom," Meg murmured and made him a deep curtsey. He nodded to her and motioned for her to go. Relieved, Meg took the opportunity to move away, casting a final glance at Christine, who made no move to follow her. "He let her leave before," Meg murmured, trying to reconcile herself to leaving her friend alone in his presence.

Erik waited until Meg vanished, and turned a level gaze on Christine, deliberately aloof. He resisted the need to prolong the moment of parting, drew his cloak around himself, and turned from her again, opening the door of the coach. "Doubtless the wife of the Vicomte de Chagny has more pressing matters to attend than the welfare of Erik."

Christine felt a lump rise in her throat as he swiftly strode away. During the time she had known him, he had grown from a petty, manipulative murderer to a man who could, however painfully, allow his beloved to make her own choices.

"Erik," she whispered, too late, for he had disappeared into the darkness, as was his custom. The name tasted bittersweet on her tongue. Angrily she dashed away the tears which sprang into her eyes. "You have given me my freedom once again. If I return to you, will you enslave me to your will, to live forever in darkness beside you? Will I exist only to sing for you, and to be your--"

Christine closed her mouth before the final thought could escape, tried to banish the images which rose in her mind, images which tantalized even as they frightened her. 'To be Erik's lover,' her mind finished the thought despite her wishes. Her fists clenched tightly as she weathered the storm of emotion caused by that thought. Of course, this was why she had returned to Paris, against all sense, against her will and her better judgment. She loved Erik, wanted him, needed him! She had not been able to bear the possibility that he would be sentenced to die.

Christine left the coach, absently pouring coins into the drunken driver's palm. Her mind was far away, reliving the moment when she had been reunited with Erik. Hearing the sound of his voice in that mouldering cell, feeling his touch once again... nothing had changed between them, least of all the intoxication, the ecstasy of desire and fear-thrilled exhilaration she experienced simply being with him.

With an effort, she summoned up her resentment, the resentment of the shadow of Erik which had fallen between her and her husband. For surely she resented the shadow which had insinuated itself even into their marriage bed: memories of Erik's enthralling song, the gentleness of his strong hands as he supported her, his caresses as he sang to her... the gentleness which had been present even when he took her from the stage that final fateful evening, the unwavering tenderness which had always belied his rough words.

Raoul! Beloved, kind Raoul! He had never mentioned her lapses, but he knew. When her eyes grew vague, if she didn't hear him speak her name, the days when she remained unnaturally silent, the nights she grew stiff during love... Raoul knew, and her heart wept for his pain. Would she ever be able to purge herself of guilt for her inadvertent betrayal of his innocent adoration?

Christine's hands trembled as she made her lonely way back to the Opera House.

Meg awaited her, hovering nervously inside near the grand stair. "Thank God, Christine."

Christine hushed her automatically and took her arm, steering her toward the room they now shared. The Opera, with Erik in residence, was not a place to speak openly.

"What did you...?" Meg whispered, tugging at Christine's sleeve. Christine shushed her more fiercely, her brimming eyes revealing her struggle for control.

Neither of the women glimpsed Erik lingering in the shadow of a column, intent on their conversation. His eyes followed them as they hurried back to Meg's room. Against all possible hope, his Christine had returned to Paris. Incredibly, she had not brought Raoul. In any case, she had risked herself to rescue him from impending execution. Perhaps, Erik thought, her decision has changed. Even if it has not, it may be that I can persuade her to change it. Deftly he triggered a hidden panel and slipped into the column.

The true master of the Opera had returned.

Christine found it impossible to sleep. The darkness felt alive with unseen eyes. Meg, burning with unanswered questions, had nevertheless fallen asleep shortly after she got into bed. Their daring rescue had taken only half the night. It seemed to Christine that it had taken a lifetime.

Giving up at last, she lifted herself from her cot, stretching the tension from her arms. Wearily she loosed her hair from her linen nightcap and drew on a silky dressing gown borrowed from Meg. Perhaps a walk would help her to sleep.

Christine silently paced the corridors she had known so well. The orange glow of her flickering candle formed a faint halo around her. Bare feet silent on polished boards, she mounted the stage. Standing in the center, she set her candle on the floor and faced the great empty auditorium. Abashed by the echo of her voice in space, she lifted her arms and murmured a few words from an aria she had sung long ago, for Erik. Her voice fell dimly into the hush of the great room.

If anyone chanced to see or hear her, they would believe the ghost of Christine Daae had returned to walk the Opera House alongside the Phantom. Instinctively she raised her eyes to Box Five, which remained imperceptible in the darkness which shrouded the room. It had been so long since she had lifted her voice in song! She repeated the phrase from the aria, slightly louder.

This time, the echo which greeted her ears was not her own voice. Her song faltered and she whirled to face him. Truth be told, she was not surprised by his presence. After all, she had felt his eyes following her even in Meg's room. However, she had not expected him to reveal himself so soon. Gooseflesh rose on her skin and a delicious tremor ran through her body.

Erik stepped from the shadows of the stage, once more attired in his fine evening clothes. Though gaunt, he seemed essentially unchanged, as if they had returned in time to that evening long ago when she had stepped through the mirror at the command of her Angel.

Erik advanced on her slowly, providing a soft counterpoint to the aria. She looked vulnerable and very beautiful. The light of her candle shimmered in the translucent silk gown. The silhouette of her body tempted him to sweep her up into his arms. Trembling in her eyes was the look of adoration he had missed so much in her absence. He stopped his advance, not trusting in the strength of his restraint. Slowly he made a circuit around her, till he stood at the front of the stage.

Erik was a man who let nothing pass unnoticed, and experience had taught him much. The results of his past mistakes had shown him that he must never rush Christine. He resolved to be patient with her and to keep his distance if necessary. All would be lost if he frightened her.

Christine's voice revealed signs of disuse. Erik felt regret growing deep within him. Had she not wanted to preserve her beautiful voice?

She stopped singing and moistened her lips nervously, embarrassed by the way her voice had grown husky and uncertain from long weeks without song. Nervously she pushed back a wisp of her hair. Her eyes flickered toward the exit. She must have been mad to come out here alone in the dark, mad to sing, to tease him so mercilessly...

Erik understood that she was about to flee. He modulated his song, forming the wordless notes of a simple vocal exercise. His voice implored her, commanded her, to respond.

Christine felt the authority of her teacher and replied automatically to the tonal request. Her composure returned in a rush with the familiar notes. Erik nodded, approving her returning calm as much as her song. He gestured for her to repeat the scale. Their eyes met and locked. Together they fell into the comfortable routine of their lessons.

Christine hardly noticed as he drew closer to her, closer until he could have reached out to touch her. Their voices remained hushed, yet the tempo of the music increased. At last Erik stopped her. They held the final note until their voices whispered out into silence. Christine suddenly realized how long she had stood there, unmoving. She took a step, but her knees felt weak, and she faltered slightly.

Immediately he steadied her as she swayed, his face merely inches from hers. Her warm breath caressed him. He watched her dark, graceful lashes blink. Erik lifted his hand and gently stroked her hair. She lowered her eyes, flushing slightly.

The candle chose that moment to flicker out, breaking the spell which bound them together. Christine cried out softly and jerked away, frightened. She started to hurry blindly into the darkness.

"Christine," he murmured softly, hearing her feet pattering across the floor. "Don't go!"

Moving like a cat, he caught her within only a few steps. "You will fall and hurt yourself," he explained. She struggled against his restraining arms, her breath coming fast.

He held her hand firmly and slipped his arm around her waist. He pulled her with him in a meandering line, with the confidence of one who knew every obstacle waiting in the dark. She felt him stoop, heard the unmistakable sound of a lantern clattering. Light flooded the silk scrims and props. He released her, strode across the stage, and retrieved her candle holder. The taper had burned all the way down and its wick had fallen, extinguishing itself in the small pool of liquid wax which remained. Silently he handed it to her.

Embarrassed, Christine could not meet his eyes. She studied the snuffed candle in her hands.

Erik considered the embarrassed heat rising in her cheeks. The moment had shattered completely. Sadly he bent forward and touched his lips to her temple, his unmasked cheek brushing hers. She heard his cloak rustle against the floorboards as he started away, leaving the lantern at her feet.

"Wait," the word burst from her before she thought. He halted in mid-stride, looked over his shoulder to her. Her eyes brimmed with tears. She was small and fragile standing there, bending to pick up the lantern. She was the most beautiful sight Erik had ever seen, coming to him of her own accord, with her little feet bare below her nightdress like a child's. She stood immediately before him, shivering. Of course, he realized, she must be cold. He had not noticed the chill himself, wearing his heavy cloak. He unfastened the clasp and removed it. Taking the lantern and setting it aside, he arranged the cloak over her shoulders.

Glimmering tears overflowed onto her cheeks. Carefully he put his arm around her and directed her head onto his shoulder. She nestled against him, sobbing quietly.

Erik had difficulty catching his breath. He let his arms tighten around her, existing only to feel her pressing against him.

"I'm sorry," she whispered at last, clutching him tightly. "I'm so sorry, Erik."

He stroked her shoulders and pressed his face into the silky perfume of her hair. This moment must be savored, before the cruel fate which haunted his existence ripped her from him once again-- this time forever. The thought maddened him.

Erik abandoned all restraint and covered her throat with despairing kisses. Christine gasped. Her head fell back, and he tasted the salt of her tears.

Christine felt his fingertips trailing fire across her collarbone, into the hollow of her throat, and up to the delicate bones of her face. His starched shirt felt crisp against her skin. Surrendering to him completely, she clasped his face in her hands as he kissed her mouth. The mask, the hateful cold mask, came between them. Impatiently Christine snatched it away. The sadly disfigured flesh beneath did not distract her. She hardly noticed it in the heated release of the desire she had repressed for so long. "Take me home," she whispered, her breath warm in his ear.

"Home?" he hardly dared to believe what he had heard.

"Home with you," Christine urged him breathlessly.

Erik swept her up into his arms and carried her. Her arms wrapped around his neck. Her hair and her warm kisses caressed his face. Their bliss might last for only an hour or for an entire lifetime, but this night Christine gave herself to Erik wholeheartedly and without reservation.

Christine awakened much later, her head pillowed on his shoulder. The candles burned low, leaving the room in a faint, dusky light. Shadows danced on the deep crimson tapestried walls without reaching the high ceiling. Her hand lay on his broad chest, and she could feel his strong heartbeat, slow and peaceful. Christine kept her breathing quiet and even, not wanting to disturb him. The rich memories of their night of love flowed into her mind, setting her heart beating swiftly. She felt quite shy lying at his side, her bare flesh against his. His hand stirred, caressing her shoulders.

For now, at least, no thoughts of Raoul stirred either her emotions or her conscience. Blissfully she nestled against Erik, stroking his chest and arms. He rolled to face her, enfolding her against him once more.

Outside in the streets of Paris, the dawn brightened to brilliant noon, but not even the sun could outshine the joy released by their love.

End.


End file.
